Wedded To The Underworld

Zia The satin of my wedding dress clung to my skin like a second prison. It was the most beautiful and most expensive dress I had ever worn. And yet, the day that was supposed to be the best of my life felt anything but magical. It felt... eerie. Wrong. "You're stunning, ma'am." The wedding stylist said softly. I gave a tight smile. I stared at myself in the mirror. Each step down the marble aisle felt heavier than the last, like chains had been wrapped around my ankles. The guests— men in sharp suits, women in blood-red dresses-watched with cold, glittering eyes, their smiles hiding secrets I didn’t want to know. At the end of the aisle stood Lucien Saint, the man who was about to become my husband. His expression was carved from stone— cold, beautiful and merciless. Lucien Alessandro Saint was the most beautiful nightmare I had ever seen. Tall and built like sin, he moved with a lethal grace that made the world feel smaller just by his presence. His black suit hugged broad shoulders and a lean, powerful frame, tailored to perfection. But it wasn’t just the way he looked—it was how he carried himself. Calm. Ruthless. Untouchable. His face was sculpted with sharp, brutal lines: a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and lips that looked like they were shaped more for cruelty than kindness. Under the cathedral lights, his pale skin made the dark stubble along his jaw appear even more dangerous. And then— his eyes. Steel-gray, like frozen smoke. Beautiful. Cold. And utterly without mercy. Lucien wasn't just handsome. He was terrifying. And he wore his beauty like a weapon— designed to lure you in before he cut you to pieces. There was no softness in him. No warmth. Only a raw, simmering power that clung to his every movement, a promise that beneath every expensive suit and the aristocratic face was a man capable of unspeakable violence and willing to wield it without hesitation. He didn’t look at me as I approached. He didn’t have to. The closer I got to the altar, the tighter my grip became on the bouquet. White fragile roses, pure — crushed under my shaking fingers. Relax, Zia. Relax. I chanted silently, trying to calm my hammering heart. Then Lucien’s eyes met mine. Not with affection. Not even with hatred. Just cold indifference. His expression was unreadable, almost boring. As if marrying me was just another box to tick before returning to the empire of blood and fear he commanded. My hands trembled, so violently I was sure everyone could see. Tears stung my eyes, but I willed them not to drop. I couldn't. Not here. Not in front of these people. In this world, weakness was just another scent of blood in the water. When I finally stood beside him, barely breathing, he leaned down. His lips brushed my ear with a mockery of tenderness. Goosebumps cascaded down my skin as his warm breath landed on my ear. "Smile, little lamb," he whispered, his voice like a blade against my skin. "Wouldn’t want the guests thinking I’m marrying a corpse." I flinched. The bouquet slipped slightly from my fingers, and a quiet, cruel chuckle rumbled from his chest—meant only for me. Then, the priest began to speak, but his words sounded distant, muffled, like I was underwater. "Today, we join two souls not by love, but by duty," the old man intoned, his voice echoing through the marble hall. "In this world, promises are paid in blood, and vows are carved into the bones of the unwilling." A ripple of uneasy laughter swept through the crowd. I swallowed hard, fighting the scream that clawed up my throat. Lucien reached for my hand. His fingers were rough, his grip unyielding. He yanked the bouquet from my grasp and tossed it aside like it meant nothing. A soft gasp escaped me— humiliated, but he didn’t spare me a glance. The gold band gleamed coldly between his fingers, and without ceremony, he seized my left hand. Pain sparked as he shoved the ring onto my finger, scraping against the bone, too tight. Leaving a mark. A binding. A brand. Worse than any wound. I fumbled with his ring, my fingers clumsy and slick with nerves. Somehow, I managed to slip it into his hand. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He was angry. Of course, he hated this union. The priest’s voice sliced through the tension. "By the laws of God and the blood of the Saints, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." Lucien smiled—mocking and slow. He leaned closer, so close I could see the cruelty in his eyes — a cruelty he didn’t bother to hide. His hand curled around the back of my neck, firm and punishing, making it impossible to pull away. It was quite painful. Then, just as our lips were about to meet, he stopped. He whispered against my mouth, his breath hot and taunting: "Welcome to your prison, Mrs. Saint.” And then he released me. Leaving me standing there, alone, under the weight of a thousand judging eyes and a thousand whisperered judgements. A queen without a king, a wife without a husband. The crowd erupted into polite applause. But all I could hear was the pounding of my own broken heart. This wasn’t a wedding. It was a sacrifice. And I was the lamb. I already knew I didn’t belong in his world. I was nothing more than a pawn in a game I had never agreed to play — and tonight, I would learn the true meaning of cruelty.